by N. H. Senzai
“Whether it was an accident or on purpose, Ammar’s model was destroyed,” she whispered. “What are we going to do about our project?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Ammar has a plan.”
Presentations always made me nervous. I clutched my note cards with sweaty fingers and took a couple of deep breaths. I reminded myself of what Dr. Kelley had said in our last session—anxiety was normal and couldn’t really hurt me.
“Do I have a group that wants to go first?” Mr. Fowler asked. He had set up a podium and a table with two chairs at the front of the room.
Bailey raised her hand. “Yep. I’ll be the guinea pig. I’m ready to get this over with.”
Nick groaned.
Lea said to him, “Suck it up, buttercup,” and everyone laughed.
Bailey walked over and stood behind the podium, while Lea and Nick sat behind the table. “Our presentation is about the ocean voyages of immigrants,” she said.
The first thing I noticed was that Bailey had memorized her speech and didn’t need note cards. The second thing was that she couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands and kept playing with her bracelet.
“Steamships changed immigration,” Bailey said. “Sailing across the Atlantic could take as long as six months, but the same trip could be made in only a week or two by steamship.”
Nick, who was wearing a camouflage T-shirt, held up a large poster. He’d drawn a full-rigged sailing vessel and a steamship with a paddle wheel.
“Impressive,” Mr. Fowler said, wiggling his eyebrows like a fuzzy caterpillar. “Nick, that is the most detailed drawing of a sailing ship I’ve ever seen from a student.”
I grudgingly admired Nick’s drawings. Any kid who’d ever seen one of his cartoons knew he had talent, but I was shocked when Mr. Fowler’s compliment stained Nick’s cheeks the color of a fresh raspberry.
As Lea took over from Nick, her hoop earrings swayed. “My family’s immigration story started when Fidel Castro rose to power in Cuba,” she said. “My abuela’s parents were so desperate to escape communism, they set out with their children in an overcrowded, poorly constructed boat for the US.”
I had heard Lea’s story before, but because of Noura’s friend Maryam, I listened to it in a new way. It didn’t seem like ancient history anymore. I glanced over at Noura, and her eyes were puddled with tears.
When Lea finished, it was Joel, Penny, and Daksha’s turn. They played a slideshow entitled The History of Immigration Laws in the US. “The Immigration Act of 1924 was passed to keep out families like mine,” Joel said, pushing up his glasses. “It set quotas on immigrants from southern and eastern Europe.”
Daksha joined in. “It also banned all immigrants from Asia, but then another law was passed in 1965 called the Immigration and Nationality Act, and that law gave preference to people with specialized skills. My grandfather came to the United States from Bengal, India, as an engineer.”
I was interested in Daksha’s presentation, but so nervous that I could hardly pay attention. And I didn’t hear a word of Penny’s speech because my heart was beating too fast. I closed my eyes and practiced square breathing the way Dr. Kelley had taught me, and pretty soon, I started to relax.
“Ready, group three?” Mr. Fowler asked.
I stood up, stumbled over my big feet, and almost face-planted on my way to the podium.
Nick laughed out loud and Mr. Fowler stared him down. “Apologize to Jordyn, immediately,” he said.
“Sorry,” Nick mumbled.
I placed my note cards on the podium and took a couple of shaky breaths. “The ti … title to our presentation is Immigration Offers a Second Chance.” My voice grew stronger. “The poet Emma Lazarus wrote these words in 1883: ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free … ’ Those words are inscribed on a plaque that’s in the Statue of Liberty Museum, but our country doesn’t always live up to them.” I used the example of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. When Chinese immigrants were interrogated on Angel Island, those interrogations could last for months. “It took Noura’s family over two years to be admitted to the United States. Now she’ll tell you how immigration works today.”
Noura passed me on her way to the podium and gazed out at our classmates. I could tell she was nervous by the way her hands trembled as she gripped her note cards. “Like Jordyn said, our family waited over two years to be admitted to the United States. After we fled to Turkey, we applied for refugee status with the United Nations.” Noura looked down at her notes. “The formal name is United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. UNHCR referred us for resettlement in America. It was not our first choice. Though we would have immigrated to any country—any country safe from bombs—Mama would have preferred to go to Germany. That’s because we already had family living there. Immigration is a very frustrating and difficult process. My parents went through interviews, security screenings, fingerprinting, medical exams, and more security screenings. We thought the process would never end. Ammar and I joked it took a thousand and one days.” She paused and looked out at our classmates. “My parents have a dream to rebuild our lives, and for Ammar, Ismail, and me to get a good education and have a chance for success.”
Mr. Fowler clapped. “Kids, think about what Noura just accomplished. She presented in English, which is not her native language. That’s something most of us aren’t equipped to do.”
Noura looked down at the floor, but there was a big smile on her face.
Ammar carried his ruined model to the front of the room and set it on the table in front of him. A frown tugged at his scar, causing Noura and me to exchange worried looks. She’d told me he’d been practicing, and I crossed my fingers he wouldn’t panic. I knew how humiliating that could be. Using one of the class computers, I showed a picture of the Great Mosque of Aleppo, with its square, blush-colored minaret covered in intricate designs.
“Construction on the Great Mosque started in the eighth century,” Ammar said. He paused, as if doing mental math. “That means parts of it were built nearly a thousand years before America gained its independence. The photograph Jordyn is displaying was taken in 2012.”
I flipped to a picture of the mosque a year later. Several kids gasped.
“The mosque has been heavily damaged in the civil war,” Ammar said. He pointed to a pile of rubble. “This used to be a forty-five-meter minaret.”
Penny raised her hand. “What exactly is a minaret?”
“A slender tower with a balcony. It is used by a muezzin, the man who calls people to prayers. It is similar to a bell tower in a Christian church.”
Then I set our plan in motion. Using the picture I’d taken on my phone, I’d made a slide of the way Ammar’s model had looked before it had been destroyed. I clicked on the slide, while he picked up the actual ruins. “My project is like the Great Mosque itself—damaged by hate.”
Kids looked down, away, from side to side. Anywhere but at Ammar. Though Alexander had said what happened was an accident, most kids thought he’d tripped Ammar on purpose.
Ammar placed his model back on the table. “Jordyn spoke about the Statue of Liberty,” he said, his voice growing more confident. “I have been researching her designer, the Frenchman Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi. Do any of you know his inspiration for Lady Liberty?”
Daksha said, “She reminds me of a Greek goddess.”
“That’s a good guess,” Ammar said, “but incorrect.”
“Since the Statue of Liberty was a gift from France, maybe she’s French,” Joel said.
“Another good guess,” Ammar said, “but wrong again. On a trip to Egypt, Bartholdi was inspired to design a statue he hoped would be placed at the entrance to the Suez Canal. But Bartholdi couldn’t convince the Egyptian government to fund the project, and so he traveled to New York to convince the Americans they needed a statue, and when they said yes, the design of a Muslim woman became Lady Liberty.”
“Bonus points!”
Mr. Fowler crowed. “You unearthed a piece of history I didn’t know about. Where did you find such an interesting tidbit, anyway?”
“Online at the Smithsonian,” Ammar said, with a proud smile on his face. He checked his notes and continued. “One day I hope to return to Syria. Our country will need architects, builders, doctors, journalists. It will take many dedicated people to rebuild Syria.” His voice shook. “This subject is personal to our family because thanks to immigration, we have a second chance.”
I thought about all the immigration laws we’d discussed so far. Each one was personal and had affected real people, but it was easy to ignore laws passed by Congress until we heard the stories of real families who’d been affected by them. Noura and Ammar had their first birthday in America coming up, and I wanted to make it something special.
It was pretty simple. Jordyn had bribed me; not with money, but with the promise of birds. It was a little more complicated than that, of course. It had begun with two wrapped presents Jordyn had given us in the prayer room, coupled with a cheerful “Happy birthday!”
Ammar carefully tore into the bright red-and-yellow-striped wrapping paper, revealing a book called World Architecture: The Masterworks. He’d been dumbfounded and actually blushed, getting a laugh out of Jordyn and me. “It’s marvelous,” he’d whispered.
Inside my package was a book too: Birds of Florida Field Guide. “This is wonderful,” I’d gasped. “How did you know it was our birthday?”
“It was on the paperwork my parents got when we decided to work with the church,” Jordyn said.
I’d flipped open the pages and was staring at a stunning pink bird, its eyes a bright yellow and its bill shaped like a spoon. I had seen that same bird from the plane!
“So,” Jordyn had said, “do you want to see some of the beautiful birds in that book?”
“Yes,” I’d said almost drunkenly. “Of course I want to see those birds.”
And with that decision, I’d agreed to get on a boat.
“Are you sure you want to do this, habibti?” Baba whispered in my ear the following Saturday morning.
We were standing on the docks at Hula Bay Club, staring as an amazing contraption hoisted Mr. Johnson’s sleek blue-and-white boat down from storage. It was like plucking a book off a shelf. Ammar was transfixed by the incredible mechanics of it as the boat was skillfully lowered into the water.
I straightened my shoulders, filled with steely resolve. Dr. Barakat’s technique had never failed me, and I had grown more confident with swimming lessons. Surely, I could do this. I touched my peacock brooch, the only burst of color on my crisp white cotton shirt. Water would not turn me into a puddle of fear. “Yes,” I said simply.
Mr. Johnson wore a blue cap over his sandy hair and gave me a warm smile. His teeth were just as Jordyn had described them in the letter she had left on my pillow: white enough to blind you. “I double-checked the forecast again this morning,” he said. “No wind, water’s smooth as glass—a perfect day for boating.”
I nodded, still watching the ripples spread around the boat. “Mr. Johnson, I am a tiny bit nervous.”
He gave me a warm, confident smile. “I’ve been boating all my life. Don’t worry. I’ll take it nice and easy.”
“Thank you,” Baba said, squeezing my shoulders.
Jordyn climbed on board and extended her hand to help me. “You can do this,” she said as I lifted my leg over the side and clambered aboard. Clutching the railing, I took in my surroundings.
Mr. Johnson said the boat was a Robalo R200, and while that didn’t mean much to me, I knew Ammar would be reading all about it later on the internet. In the middle of the boat rose a covered center console with a double seat. Jordyn’s father sat behind the silver steering wheel, Baba beside him. There was additional seating in front of the console and behind it. I insisted on sitting behind, though Ammar looked longingly at the front. As soon as we were settled, Mr. Johnson expertly maneuvered the boat away from the dock, making his way around the other boats, both big and small, bobbing in the bay.
“Don’t worry,” Jordyn whispered, “Ammar and I are right beside you.”
I crossed my arms over the life vest Jordyn had helped me put on as the boat picked up speed and the wind whipped my hijab. I closed my eyes. As long as I didn’t look at the wide-open bay, it felt amazing—like flying over water!
A short while later, Mr. Johnson slowed the boat. He turned to look at us and said, “Are you ready for some fishing? We’re nearly there, just another fifteen minutes or so.”
“Yes, always ready,” Baba said. “I used to fish with my father on the Euphrates River. Those are some of the happiest memories of my life in Syria,” he added with a wistful smile.
“You and your family have been through a lot,” said Mr. Johnson. “I really admire your guts and determination—it can’t be easy to start over in a foreign country.”
As Baba told Jordyn’s father about his hotel, my thoughts drifted. Though I tried to rein it in, my mind went to Maryam … to the boat she’d been on as she’d left Turkey for Greece …
“You’re incredibly brave for a girl,” Ammar teased.
My eyes snapped open. He was annoying me on purpose, I could tell—to get my mind off my fears. I stuck my tongue out at him.
“Dude, I can’t let that remark slide,” Jordyn said with mock anger. “She’s incredibly brave. Period.”
I reached into one of the insulated bags and pulled out my copy of Birds of Florida Field Guide as Jordyn and Ammar kept laughing and joking, trying to keep my mind away from all the water that surrounded us. When I looked at them, my heart was full. “You both helped me,” I blurted out. “Ammar challenged me to conquer my fears and Jordyn helped me to grow more comfortable in the water. I won’t become an Olympic swimmer, but I won’t drown either.”
Ammar laughed. “Yes, you’re definitely not going to the Olympics.”
“Hey,” Jordyn said. “You never know. She’s getting really good at doggy-paddling!”
Ammar snorted, and I laughed too. Like that would ever happen.
Jordyn bent down and reached into another insulated bag. She pulled out two leather pouches and handed one to Ammar.
“Nice,” he said, reaching inside for a pair of binoculars.
“They’ll help us find Noura’s birds,” Jordyn said, “and someday, I’d like to teach you guys to snorkel. Florida has some amazing fish too.”
I set the guide on my lap and flipped it open, once again amazed at how the book had been organized by the colors of birds. There was one section I’d pored over the night before. I wondered if I would see the bird I had first spotted from the plane when we’d arrived in Tampa. I had thought it was a pink flamingo, but it was actually a roseate spoonbill, a member of the Threskiornithidae family of birds. They had been driven nearly to extinction in the 1800s for their beautiful feathers, which were used to adorn ladies’ hats. Slowly, the birds had made a comeback, but were still listed as a species of special concern.
Lost in my book, I didn’t feel Ammar tugging on my arm. “Look,” he said, handing me the binoculars. I stood and peered through them.
“We made it,” Jordyn said, looking through the other pair. “We’ve reached Shell Key Preserve.”
As my eyes adjusted, I saw the edge of an island, the bird sanctuary. There appeared to be hundreds of moving specks. As my sight cleared, I watched black-and-silver egrets feeding along the shoreline.
“Look at the blue ones,” cried Jordyn, pointing to the right.
I turned my head and caught sight of fluffy powder-blue plumed birds, their featherless gray necks skimming the water.
“Here,” said Ammar, having flipped to the blue section of the book. “They’re called wood storks. Highly endangered.”
“We’ll go around the tip and anchor,” said Mr. Johnson. “You guys can enjoy bird-watching while we fish. If you get hungry, there’s water, soda, sandwiches, chips, and cookies. Just open the cooler
and insulated bags until you find what you need.”
“Thank you,” we all muttered, but we weren’t paying much attention to food. There were too many types of birds to see and identify.
As we turned a curve and wound deeper into the preserve, my heart flew to my throat. A sea of pink crystallized before me … a huge flock of roseate spoonbills settling in for mating season. I couldn’t believe we’d found them! As I watched the birds, the shackles that had seemed to weigh me down fell away. I felt light enough to fly across the water, free to go wherever I pleased. Tears pooled along my lashes. The roseate spoonbills were home. Like me.
As soon as swim practice was over, Mom whisked me away to Dr. Kelley’s office. We got stuck in traffic and barely had time to catch our breaths before the receptionist called out, “Jordyn, Dr. Kelley is ready for you.” I couldn’t wait to tell her about my boat ride with Noura and Ammar.
Dr. Kelley greeted me with a big smile on her face. “So, tell me how you’ve been since our last session.”
I kicked off my slides and tucked my feet underneath me on the sofa. “Good.”
“Any panic attacks?”
“Nothing major, but I got nervous before I had to present in front of my social studies class.”
“Then what happened?”
“I practiced square breathing the way you’d taught me, then my heart slowed down, and except for almost face-planting on my way to the podium, I made it through the presentation just fine.”
Dr. Kelley clasped her hands together. “I’m so proud of you, Jordyn! Controlling your breathing was the best way to handle your glossophobia.”
“My glossawhat?”
“Glossophobia. It’s a fear of public speaking that’s really common, but in my experience, the more public speaking you do, the easier it gets.”
“Mom and I have been meditating too,” I said. “Dad tried it once, but it put him to sleep.”
Dr. Kelley laughed. “Keep up the meditation, and this week we’ll add positive self-talk.”